


The Girl with the Violin

by StarlightAsteria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: As ward and heir to both her grandfathers, Bullying, Don't Like Don't Read, F/M, Internalized Misogyny, Little!Sansa, Misogyny, Modern Era, Ned Stark's A+ Parenting, Sansa grows up in King's Landing, Sansa is a music prodigy, Short Story, eventual Jaime/Sansa, parental neglect, read the tags, seriously read the tags, this has consequences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:49:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: Miss Mordane looks at her very seriously then. “Sansa… has this happened before?”She sets her precious violin case down beside her and draws her knees up to hug them, nodding. “They don’t like me very much… I’m very different to them,” she tries to explain, fumbling for the words. She doesn’t like the expression on her teacher’s face. “They like hunting and shooting and scary things and I like music and drawing and pretty things and they think I’m stupid."





	1. WINTERFELL

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



> Hi everyone! Welcome to this modern!au short story; I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As always, do let me know what you thought in the comments below. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLIN

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

PART ONE - WINTERFELL

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

SANSA STARK

 

 

She helps her new teacher Miss Mordane tidy up the classroom after the first music recital of the term, still smiling because everyone had clapped after her violin solo, the way they’d done for the older kids. She’d been nervous because at almost six years old and in her first year of proper school she is the youngest in the music club by two whole years, and she’d been afraid she’d forget how to play, standing up in front of the parents to perform. 

 

She’s the last child in the classroom now, and Miss Mordane looks sympathetically at her. Everyone else’s parents had either come to the recital, or has already collected their children to take them home. Everyone except Ned and Catelyn Stark, Sansa’s parents. Fighting the sinking feeling in her chest, hugging her violin case and winter coat, hat and mittens protectively, she sits down on the carpet, and waits, staring at the posters of famous composers upon the wall. 

 

“Sansa, dear, we’ll wait five more minutes and then we’re calling home,” Miss Mordane says gently, and Sansa nods, still staring at the posters. “Perhaps your parents have hit traffic.”

 

But when Miss Mordane rings the number for Winterfell on speakerphone, it rings and rings and rings and no-one picks up. Sansa swallows hotly. “Well,” Miss Mordane says. “Let me see if there’s another number to phone on your student file… ah yes, there’s a number here for a Mrs Poole… let’s try this.”

 

“She’s our housekeeper,” Sansa says, brightening. “Oh, but it’s Friday, it’s her day off so she’ll be in White Harbour visiting her old mother,” she continues morosely. “She won’t be able to come.”

 

She clenches her fists. _I will not cry I will not cry. I’m a Stark, I’m brave and I will not cry. Starks don’t cry. All that happens when I cry is that Aunt Lyanna shouts at me, and Father and Mother tell me to stop being a drama queen and Robb and Theon and Arya laugh at me. Jon will tell me I’m being silly. I_ will not _cry._

 

“Is there anyone else I can call, Sansa?” Miss Mordane asks, always in that kind, gentle tone, and Sansa decides in that moment that she loves her new class teacher. She might have been old and scary at first, but Sansa’s decided she’s like how she imagines her own grandmothers were, once upon a time, kind and fair and patient. 

 

Thinking of her grandmothers makes her think of her grandfather Lord Rickard Stark all the way down in the South, in the capital King’s Landing. She’d spoken to him just yesterday evening, telling him how excited and also nervous she was for this recital. 

 

“I have my grandfather Lord Rickard Stark’s number, but he’s in King’s Landing,” Sansa says, wiping her eyes determinedly with the backs of her hands. “He’s a politician in the House of Lords, and there’s an important bill being voted, otherwise he would have come up to my recital. So does my other grandfather Lord Tully. He also lives in King’s Landing and works with Lord Stark in the House of Lords too.” 

 

“Well,” Miss Mordane says sensibly, “perhaps Lord Stark might still be able to help, and explain if something has happened to your parents, and that’s why they can’t pick you up.”

 

“There’s always a reason, Miss Mordane,” she replies miserably. “Robb’s hockey practice or Jon’s or Arya came first on the maths test so she gets to choose a milkshake from the place in Wintertown to celebrate. Once she got two and she poured the second one over my head when Mrs Poole drove me home.”

 

Miss Mordane looks at her very seriously then. “Sansa… has this happened before?”

 

She sets her precious violin case down beside her and draws her knees up to hug them, nodding. “They don’t like me very much… I’m very different to them,” she tries to explain, fumbling for the words. She doesn’t like the expression on her teacher’s face. “They like hunting and shooting and scary things and I like music and drawing and pretty things and they think I’m stupid. Arya says I’m stupid and she’s a year younger and she’s brilliant at maths and making things explode so she must be right. And Mother and Father say Arya’s like Aunt Lyanna all over again so they just encourage her.”

 

“Sansa, I’m calling your grandfather, now,” Miss Mordane says in her stern teacher voice, and so Sansa carefully reaches into the inside pocket of her coat to take out her grandfather’s monogrammed business card that has his phone number printed upon it, handing it over to her teacher reluctantly. 

 

_Please pick up, please pick up,_ Sansa hopes desperately, as the speakerphone rings. 

 

“This is Lord Rickard Stark,” an authoritative voice rumbles through the device. “May I ask to whom I have the honour of speaking?” Sansa almost starts crying tears of relief. 

 

“Lord Stark, thank you,” Miss Mordane replies, shooting Sansa a reassuring smile. “I realise you are a very busy man, but am your granddaughter Sansa’s schoolteacher, Miss Eglantine Mordane, and I’m afraid Sansa’s parents haven’t come to pick her up after the music club recital. Do you happen to know if they’re on their way? I’ve tried calling Winterfell but there was no answer, and Sansa informs me that today is the housekeeper’s day off, so I’ve no other means of contacting them.”

 

“I see,” her grandfather’s voice rumbles ominously, before he continues in a more even voice. “Is my granddaughter with you, Miss Mordane?”

 

“Of course, my Lord,” Sansa’s teacher is quick to assure. “Would you like to speak to her, Lord Stark? I have you on speaker.”

 

At Miss Mordane’s encouraging nod, Sansa gets up from the floor and comes to the phone. “Grandfather?”

 

“Hello, little one. Miss Mordane and I will sort this out, don’t worry.”

 

“I know, Grandfather,” she says quietly, hiccuping. “Has something happened? Is that why they can’t come and pick me up this time?”

 

“This time? Sansa, I thought it hadn’t happened since the swimming pool incident over the summer?” Her grandfather’s voice rumbles to something dangerous.

 

“Mrs Poole comes to pick me up except on Fridays, because she knows Mother and Father are too busy,” she hurries to explain, through her crying. “And last Friday because I didn’t have a recital I finished at the same time as Arya so Mother picked us up and then I had to watch Arya’s fencing lesson. I read a book.”

 

“Sansa, every time this happens, you call me, do you understand?” Her grandfather says urgently. “Miss Mordane, I would appreciate being the first to know, not called as a last resort. She is my granddaughter.”

 

“Of course, I apologise, Lord Stark.”

 

“You could not have known, Miss Mordane,” he replies with a sigh. “Miss Mordane, would you mind terribly driving Sansa home tonight? I will, of course, reimburse you the cost of the extra fuel for going out of your way.”

 

To Sansa’s great surprise, Miss Mordane agrees at once. “I would be glad to do it, Lord Stark. Sansa is a kind, talented child who is a joy to teach. There is no need to reimburse me. I don’t live far from Winterfell.”

 

Sansa ducks her head in pleased embarrassment, flushing bright red. 

 

“Nevertheless, for the kindness you have shown my grandchild, I do insist, Miss Mordane.”

 

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

 

“And Sansa, I will tell Lord Tully of this and we’ll fly up tomorrow morning. We’ll be at Winterfell by luncheon - I’ll alert Mrs Poole and Cook, don’t worry - and we’ll sort this out once and for all. This ends now, Sansa.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She’s so surprised by the fact that they _ask_ her along with them after dinner that she determinedly ignores the unease bubbling in her stomach. “Alright,” she says, daintily slipping off the sofa, carefully replacing her picture book on the coffee table. But her siblings don’t so much wait as they impatiently drag her down through the house, ignoring her questions, Arya’s grubby hand vicelike around her wrist, Robb and Theon excitedly leading the way. She doesn’t like this. But Robb has already said, and Arya too, that if Sansa doesn’t come with them she’s a coward and a crybaby and _notaStark_ so she grits her teeth and follows, swallowing down her questions. 

 

They go down, sneaking on tiptoes past the family room where Mother and Father are watching the evening news on the TV, and down, down, into the low vaulted cellars and it is cold enough to make her shiver. Robb and Theon have torchlights so she can make out the faint outlines of wine racks and dusty glass bottles. 

 

“Where are we going?” she asks again. 

 

Robb and Arya and Theon turn to her, faces half-lit, half-shadowed and she thinks they look like demons and she’s so afraid - 

 

“We’re going on a ghost hunt.” 

 

And they go down the stairs again at the bottom of the cellars and her nose begins to itch from how dry it is, similarly to how she often gets nosebleeds that leave her dizzy in winter. The dust makes her sneeze quietly. She’s never been below the cellars - and only to the cellars once with Cook and the butler Cassel because Cook needed a particular bottle of wine for the ragout and Sansa had been in the kitchen making her direwolf puppy Lady’s breakfast at the time. 

 

But she’s never been below the cellars.

 

There are statues in each alcove, guarding the stone sarcophagi behind (she learnt the word _sarcophagus_ just two days ago in history class at school and she had kept rolling the word around in her mouth, elongating the _sar_ sound with her classmates between fits of giggles, seeing who could go for the longest until Miss Mordane had told them to go and wash up for lunch). And the faces are stern, roughly carved, and she shivers, concentrating on the light provided by the two torchlights. 

 

The torches begin to sputter, and her hands twist nervously into her dress. _I don’t want to be here, but they’ll say I’m a coward if I go._

 

Then heavy, slow footsteps in the darkness, boots upon the stone. One, two, three, four. Robb - it must be Robb, she thinks, swivels his torch up -

 

One of the statues blinks. 

 

It has grey eyes and a white face. Red lips pull apart in a smile. 

 

She screams.

 

The laughter that follows her as she flees blindly makes her burst into tears. 

 

Somehow she stumbles up the stairs to the cellar where Lady finds her, and she throws her arms around her puppy, ignoring the bruises she can feel forming on her kneecaps. 

 

She draws herself a bath, washes off the grime, and curls up in her bed, still shivering with terror despite her sigil’s best efforts to cheer her up. Her sweet direwolf - the only one of the six puppies who prefers to be inside and not ranging in the woods on the other side of the castle - lays next to her, and Sansa twists her small hand into her puppy’s fur. 

 

When she eventually falls asleep it is to Lady gently licking Sansa’s cheeks of tears. 

 

_I knew it. I knew they didn’t really want me with them. They only wanted to frighten me, to make me cry. I knew it._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next morning finds Sansa in the kitchen with Cook after breakfast, helping the chef make her grandfather Lord Stark’s favourite luncheon, and the pastries for Lord Tully’s favoured sweet plate he takes with his afternoon coffee. She sits quite happily up on the stool, carefully following Cook’s instructions to pass this or that spice, to rub the butter and flour between her fingers, washing her hands at the sink with soft soap instead of wiping them upon her apron and dirtying the material as her siblings are wont to do. 

 

She likes cooking. She likes _making_ things. She likes seeing people’s smiles of appreciation when they enjoy the food. She likes the calm environment of the kitchen, the way light falls through great panes of gleaming glass onto the stainless steel worktops and stoves, making them shine. She likes the orderly way Cook runs her domain, ever calm even when there’s a multitude of bubbling pots to stir and pastry chefs to supervise and game to carve. She likes the way Cook, upon receiving the morning daily delivery of fruits and vegetables from the castle’s glasshouses and game hunted either by the groundsmen or the elders of Sansa’s family, will pray to the Old Gods and thank them for their bounty. 

 

If she isn’t at school or practicing her violin or sewing or drawing in her room, she gravitates to the kitchen. She likes to think Cook and the rest of the staff don’t mind her presence because she always makes certain to be polite and gentle and respectful and obedient. 

 

Today, for the first time, she’s allowed pipe the icing onto the cookies herself, and she beams at Cook before carefully following the instruction to draw assorted geometric shapes, concentrating on keeping her hands steady. Cook pronounces her work good with a sharp nod, and Sansa relishes the rare warmth curling in her chest.

 

“Now you’d best run along and get changed, Lady Sansa, for you wouldn’t want to greet your grandfathers in kitchen clothes, would you?” Cook says firmly, though still kindly. 

 

Sansa nods and leans to press a sweet kiss to Cook’s cheek. “Thank you for letting me help, Cook,” she says, before climbing down off her stool, untying her apron to hang it on the hook that Cook has said is just for her, lowered to her height, before making her way up to her room. 

 

Ever since her siblings have taken to leaving slime in her shoes or mud upon her clothes, splattering it on the inside of her closet, she has acquired from the housekeeper Mrs Poole a padlock and key for the ancient trunk at the foot of her bed, in which she now keeps the nice things she doesn’t want to get damaged, including her clothes. 

 

She decides on a long-sleeved teal dress with pretty ruffles at the wrist and neck and the white sash around her middle that she has to concentrate to tie properly, soft white woollen tights and smart teal suede loafers. Dressed, she brushes her hair until it shines and puts on the matching headband. The clock on her wall says it is only eleven thirty, so she takes one of her wonderfully illustrated books telling the story of the old songs she loves because they’re so beautiful, to read on her window seat.

 

From here, she has a wonderful view to the front of the house, and she can easily see cars coming up the long, pine-lined drive, and thus she settles against the soft cushions to wait for the arrival of both her grandfathers.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

RICKARD STARK 

 

Despite the circumstances, driving along Winterfell’s long drive up to the castle, then over the drawbridge and into the central courtyard, always brings with it a sentiment of homecoming. He does not come here nearly enough, he thinks, especially if what he has deduced from that heart-wrenching phone call with his granddaughter’s school teacher is accurate. 

 

Grimly, he gets out of the car, nodding his thanks to his chauffeur and valet who holds the door open for him, even as Lord Tully’s valet performs the same office for his own employer. 

 

The household has come out onto the steps to greet them as is customary, his son and good-daughter standing in the centre, dressed casually, and something heavy settles in Rickard’s stomach. The children are there too, but the boys and Arya are racing around the courtyard with a litter of barking direwolf puppies, screaming and shouting as if they are in the playground, getting in the way of the staff unloading the luggage from the car, and not welcoming their lord grandfathers to their home. Sansa stands next to her mother and Lyanna, wearing her smart winter coat and furry hat and mittens because of the cold. 

 

“Ned, Cat,” he says formally, Lord Tully beside him doing the same. 

 

“It’s good to see you, Father,” his son says, “though rather unexpected.”

 

“It was a last minute decision,” Lord Tully explains evenly. 

 

Catelyn Stark blinks. “Well, come inside, come inside.”

 

Something dark haired and small barrels into his legs, and he almost falls to the ground. “Grandfather, have you brought us presents?” his wild granddaughter Arya exclaims. “Have you brought me a sword? Or a rifle? I came first in maths again, Mama says I can have a cake to celebrate - Jon and I have planned a cake fight in the drawing room. I smashed a cake in Sansa’s face once, but she cried.”

 

Robb, not to be outdone, shouts, “If Arya’s getting a rifle I want one too! Mother, tell grandfather I have to have a rifle!” 

 

There are muddy handprints on his beige suit trousers now, and behind him he can practically hear his valet’s heart sink. “Shoving a cake at your sister is no way to treat her.”

 

“She’s naturally high-spirited, Father,” Ned says, coming to his daughter’s defence. But Rickard is watching Ned’s other daughter, and it makes him grim to see that she seems to curl into herself, looking down at her feet and holding so tightly to her mittens that her knuckles are white. 

 

“It isn’t _high spirits_ if the recipient cries,” Lord Tully interjects evenly. 

 

“But Sansa’s _boorring,_ ” Arya protests, pouting. 

 

“And she’s a crybaby anyway,” Robb finishes his sister’s thought smartly. He starts tussling then and there with Theon, shouting at the top of his lungs, as the two rowdy boys whack each other violently. 

 

“Enough,” Rickard replies. “Enough. I will change my suit, we shall all sit down to luncheon, and then we will talk about why Lord Tully and I are here.”

 

His good-daughter blinks. “Of course,” she says after a pause, “shall I show you up to your rooms?”

 

“I think I remember the way,” Rickard replies, forcing himself to restraint. “It is, after all, my own castle.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Luncheon is a disaster. The children are seated down at one end of the table, the adults at the other, and it is so loud Rickard can barely hear himself think. The lamb _confit_ he is served is so succulent it falls off the bone, the wine has been brought up from the cellars for the occasion, but everything about the people he is with makes the meal a veritable chore, unpleasant and lengthy. 

 

When Arya and Robb and Theon start having a competition to see who can catapult the most mashed potato onto each other and onto Sansa, Jon sniggering at his siblings’ antics, Rickard stands, throwing his white cloth napkin down in disgust. “Ned, Cat, Lyanna, my study, _this instant,”_ he growls. “Cassel,” he continues, turning to Winterfell’s butler, “see the children back to their rooms; they can have trays sent to them. They are quite clearly not ready for a formal luncheon. And by the gods, someone help Sansa - those clothes are destroyed, unfortunately.” 

 

“At once, my lord,” Cassel bows.

 

“Father - ” Lyanna begins tentatively.

 

“My study, _now._ I will not repeat myself.” 

 

He waits until he, Hoster Tully, Cat, Ned and Lyanna are in his study before shutting the door. He and his peer sit behind his desk; the younger generation stand uncomfortably. 

 

A glance at his friend tells him Lord Tully has managed to keep greater hold of his equanimity than he has. “I never thought I would see the day Winterfell turned into a pigsty,” he begins, in no mood to temper his words. 

 

“It’s called being informal,” Lyanna retorts. “You’ve been too long in the South, Father.” 

 

Rickard’s eyes narrow, and he is gratified to see his wilful, wild daughter quail at the ice in his gaze. “No, that was chaos, to the point of being unable to eat.”

 

“If you’re only here to comment on the way we have our table, Lord Stark, I cannot fathom your coming all this way from King’s Landing,” Rickard’s good-daughter interjects. 

 

“Indeed not,” Hoster Tully snorts. “Though the meal has provided us with the further evidence we were looking for.”

 

“Evidence?” Ned repeats in bewilderment. 

 

“Yes, evidence,” Rickard confirms. 

 

“For what?”

 

“I received a phone call from Sansa’s schoolteacher yesterday afternoon. Something about no adult coming to fetch her from school after her violin recital.”

 

“So that’s just evidence of Sansa being a crybaby, which we already knew,” Lyanna scoffs. 

 

Rickard fights a losing battle against his incredulous consternation. “She is a six year old _child_ whose parents and aunt neglected to pick her up.”

 

“She’s a wimp.” Rickard is stunned by the aggressive nature of his daughter’s reply which is heavy with hysterical, furious hatred. “She cries when we bring in the game from the hunt, runs away screaming with fear if we start skinning the rabbits in front of her. She can’t take the slightest bit of mud, and she’s always reading or playing that stupid violin of hers or sewing flowers or swooning over fairytales. Sewing! Swooning!”

 

“She is high maintenance, that is true,” Ned attempts to explain. “She insists on wearing entirely impractical clothes for the mud fights the rest of the children get up to, and sulks when her dresses are soiled. She won’t let Arya near her books at all, won’t share any of her toys with her siblings. Arya and Theon and Robb were using her violin to play catch the other day - just a harmless game - and she burst into tears.”

 

“And it hasn’t occurred to you that she cries because she is desperately unhappy?” Lord Tully snaps. 

 

“Why would she be unhappy?” Cat asks. 

 

Rickard stares at her. She cannot be serious, but it appears his good-daughter is, because she repeats her question. 

 

“She is unhappy because she is being bullied by her siblings and either dismissed or treated cruelly by the adults who are meant to protect and care for her.”

 

Rickard’s statement causes furious denials to burst from all three of them, and he sees that he is getting nowhere, exchanging another grim glance with Lord Tully. 

 

“Rickard and I came here to propose a solution,” Hoster Tully begins evenly, and Rickard does not know how his friend is able to keep the disdain Rickard knows is searing through the other man’s veins from being visible. “Lord Stark and I will foster Sansa in King’s Landing until she comes of age. He and I would become her principal guardians.”

 

“We have the papers here with us for you to sign.”

 

Rickard is disappointed by how quickly his son and good-daughter sign the papers, not even putting up a fight, but the bile truly rises in his throat when Lyanna says to Cat, “Now you can redecorate that girl’s room for the new baby. Get rid of all the frills so it becomes a proper Stark.”

 

He leaves his study before he does something unforgivable, making a mental note to command Mrs Poole to lock Sansa’s room and give him the key once they leave. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He and Hoster find their granddaughter curled up on her window seat in her room, staring blankly out at the drive, books and luncheon tray alike abandoned beside her. The position the six year old child folds herself into speaks of long familiarity, and he wonders with a sinking heart just how many times his granddaughter has sat thus, staring out over the grounds waiting for a rescue that never arrives. Her direwolf puppy Lady wags her tail but does not move from her spot, also curled up beside Sansa’s leg. He is pleased to see that she has changed out of her dirtied clothing, now wearing the tailored white cashmere he personally gifted her upon the occasion of her last nameday.

 

“Granddaughter,” he begins, gentling his voice. 

 

Sansa flies up off her window seat, trembling, red-eyed, into a curtsey. “Grandfather Lord Stark, Grandfather Lord Tully.”

 

“Are you not hungry?” Hoster asks. 

 

The six year old shakes her head. “I know it is impolite because Cook spent all morning on it, but I’m not hungry.”

 

“That’s fine,” Rickard answers, walking further into the room, crouching so he is not so intimidating to his little granddaughter. “We have something very important to discuss with you, little one.” He looks to his friend. He hardly knows where or how to start. He does not know how to cushion this blow. For the news that her parents have relinquished their guardianship of her will break her gentle heart, that he knows.

 

“What is it?” she says, innocent blue eyes wide. 

 

The three of them jump in surprise when the bedroom door is flung open by Lyanna. 

 

“Lyanna,” Rickard growls, standing fluidly. “Out! Get out this _instant._ ”

 

His daughter has a feverish gleam in her eyes, one Rickard intensely mislikes. “Oh, but I thought I’d celebrate!” she crows, rounding on Sansa, “Ned and Cat finally came to their senses and kicked you out of Winterfell, you wimpy crybaby!”

 

Behind him he hears Sansa gasp and burst into tears as he takes his daughter by the wrist and near drags her from the room, fury freezing his blood. It is becoming abundantly clear to him that he will have to take harsh measures with Lyanna, as much as he hates it. But those measures can wait. His priority is getting Sansa safely away from Winterfell. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


	2. KING'S LANDING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bloody primogeniture," Rickard mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for all your comments on the first chapter, I'm absolutely floored by the reception this has had. 
> 
> This chapter was a bit... fiddly to write, so please do tell me what you think of it!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

PART TWO - KING'S LANDING

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

TYWIN LANNISTER

 

He still has shaving foam upon his jaw when his butler Broom knocks upon his dressing room door. The expression upon his man’s face, combined with the folded missive extended towards him by a white-gloved hand and the customary bow and apology for the disruption, mean that Tywin steps away from his valet  Vylarr  immediately. 

   
The letter, written on heavy cream paper, is stamped with the direwolf sigil. “Lord Stark’s man is downstairs waiting for a response, I assume?”

   
“Indeed, my Lord.”

   
“Very well,” Tywin replies, his features carefully schooled into his habitual impassiveness. “A moment.” He snaps the wax and scans the missive. Only the most sensitive information is conveyed between the Lords Paramount via written missive; they have phones for the rest, but it  _is_  unusual for couriers to race from townhouse to townhouse on a Saturday evening, during the hours normally devoted to preparing oneself for the opera or the ballet or a charity gala. 

   
And indeed the particular importance of the missive is evident upon the letter paper. 

   
 _T -_ it reads,  _CSOP._ Tywin swallows grimly at the acronym, his suspicions instantly confirmed by its usage. The letters stand for the phrase ‘cannot speak on the phone’, and is only used between the three friends for the most sensitive of information, normally for political or legal dealings requiring the utmost delicacy and discretion.

   
It continues, the penmanship harried and forceful, the paper having been pierced by the writer’s nib here and there:

   
 _Lord H and I would be most obliged, old chap, by your presence and that of Lady J at Stark House as soon as is convenient. We have had to remove our shared six_ _-_ _year_ _-_ _old granddaughter from Winterfell; her situation there was most untenable and we have need of your formidable legal acumen. Please, T, make haste._

 

“Change of plans, if my lady wife agrees, Broom, Vylarr,” Tywin says, “bring the car round, tell Lord Stark’s man we will be there as quickly as we can.” He makes swiftly for his wife’s dressing room through the connecting door.

   
Joanna looks up in surprise from where she is seated brushing her hair. “Darling?”

   
“Beloved,” he begins, “do you mind terribly if we forego the gala tonight? I’ve here a most urgent message from Lord Stark, who begs our presence upon a most delicate matter involving his and Lord Tully’s young granddaughter.”

   
“Of course, darling,” his wife replies immediately. “We must go at once.” She rises, turning with alacrity to her maid. “The knee-length cream silk sheath tonight instead, Myrielle, I think, and that shall be all.”

   
“Thank you, beloved,” Tywin says, before turning back to his own dressing room to finish shaving, and dressing rather more casually, disregarding his white tie laid out for him, and directing his valet towards a simple suit of light, tailored blue that is far less fussy to put on over an everyday shirt instead of the starched dress shirt with pearl studs that he wears on the most formal occasions.

   
Dressed, he settles in to wait the few short minutes necessary for his wife to dress in a comfortable armchair placed in her dressing room for that purpose, and for the more pleasurable purpose of admiring the rituals and form of his beloved. When she appears from behind the screen, radiant even in her simpler tailoring, he bows properly over her hand, complimenting her as is his habit. They have been married for twenty-two years, and he is as completely in love with her as he ever has been; an existence in which he is not is unthinkable to him. 

   
In the car they do not speculate upon the exact circumstances which have caused Lords Stark and Tully to ask for their aid, and instead phone their only son, recently flown out to Volantis on his first fact-finding mission with the international organisation of war crimes prosecutors after having graduated with a first-class degree three months prior. Jaime had, much like Tywin, taken a law degree, but unlike the father, the son had been interested in pursuing a more dangerous legal path, holding the ambition of becoming a world-renowned war crimes barrister.

   
Jaime picks up on the third ring. “Mama? Father?” Their son’s voice is a balm to Tywin, the relief of hearing him safe, his only child, warms his heart like sunlight. 

   
“We can hear you, son,” Tywin reassures.

   
“How are you, brave boy?” Joanna questions, her brow burrowed. 

   
“I’m well, Mama,” Jaime replies immediately, in easy tones. “We’re still in Volantis, but my supervisors Arthur and Brienne have received confirmation of mass graves in the scrublands off the Demon Road, so we head out to investigate tomorrow morning.”

   
“Mass graves - Jaime \- ” Tywin says. 

   
His son is observant, and readily hears the strained timbre in his father’s voice. “Arthur and Brienne are experienced at this sort of thing, don’t worry. We’re taking an armed escort, and I have Bronn with me as well, as you know.” Tywin had hired his son a reputable bodyguard when some of the policies Tywin supported in the House of Lords had resulted in the whole Lannister family receiving anonymous death threats. Jaime had been seven at the time, and by now Bronn, after fourteen years in Lannister service, is practically family, and there is no-one Tywin trusts more with his precious son’s life than Bronn. 

   
“Good,” Tywin replies evenly.

   
“Though it does mean I’ll be without phone signal for two weeks,” Jaime continues. “I was going to call you both anyway to inform you.”

   
“Two weeks - my brave boy - you must be careful, Jaime, promise you will be careful, and call us the moment you have signal again, you must promise me this,” Joanna implores. “I do not care if it is the middle of the night - call.” 

   
“I promise, Mama, I promise.” Jaime answers.

   
“We will hold you to that, my son,” Tywin says. 

   
“I know.”

   
“Well, we’ve almost arrived at Lord Stark’s, so we must let you go, my brave boy,” Joanna says as the car pulls up outside a grand townhouse on a quiet square in the old centre of King’s Landing, only a five minute drive, traffic considered, from Lannister House, which sits imposingly two squares east. “We are so proud of you, Jaime, and we love you always.”

   
“I love you too, Mama, Father,” comes the quiet reply. 

   
“We love you, Jaime, never forget that,” Tywin says hoarsely before terminating the connection.

   


* * *

   


Tywin,  Hoster  and Rickard have been friends since Tywin’s first days at prep school aged eight, when the young Lannister heir had been left on the steps of the venerable establishment like a common orphan by his father, and Tywin has never forgiven  Tytos  this humiliation, acute and painful.  Hoster  and Rickard, a decade older, demarcated as prefects by their wearing of purple  academic  gowns instead of black over their suits like the majority of the other final years, had immediately and kindly taken Tywin under their wing, helping the confused young boy settle into his dormitory, unpack his suitcase - Tytos had not seen fit for his son to be accompanied by a valet, a further humiliation - and show him around the school which he would frequent for the next ten years. Despite the age difference, the friendship between the three boys had been near instantaneous, cultivated through long games of  cyvasse  in the communal drawing room set aside for the pupils’ use on Sunday afternoons, house rugby and polo matches, debating and fencing competitions, as well as shared political and legal and business interests, combined with an awareness of the positions the three boys by virtue of their birth would one day inherit which separated them from their peers, though the establishment was equally comprised of the more minor nobility as well as a significant proportion of scholarship students. After Rickard and  Hoster  had graduated, their association with Tywin had continued, though relegated for a large part to the long university and school holidays, when frequent gatherings of the heirs to the Lords Paramount in King’s Landing were more common than during the frenzy of term-time, as well as invitations to house or garden parties frequented by the three of them. 

   
Instead of being shown to the library or the drawing room, Lord and Lady Lannister are shown by the butler to an apartment on the first floor, grandly decorated, furnished with the highest attention to both detail and comfort. Though it is yet early evening, Rickard pours all four of them a measure of the finest Cordawlen distilled in the Far North, and Tywin raises an eyebrow as he takes the glass, slowly sipping the golden liquor with appreciation. 

   
Tywin soon finds he is glad of the digestif as Hoster and Rickard in harrowed terms recount their journey that morning to Winterfell, and what they discovered there, and the heartbreak of their gentle granddaughter. According to Hoster, the six-year-old had wept the whole journey south until exhaustion had stopped her tears at the discovery that her parents did not want her, cruelly, despicably flung in direction by her Aunt Lyanna.

   
“I have never heard anything more - more horrifying than that sound,” Hoster rasps, leaning his head back wearily in his high-backed leather armchair, and that more than anything tells Tywin how excruciating the day has been for his friends. 

   
“How may we be of assistance?” Joanna asks the men.

 

“To begin with - though  Hoster  and I have legal papers giving us guardianship over Sansa, I am wary of…” Rickard begins tiredly. “Such viciousness in  Lyanna  is equaled only by Ned’s neglect, and I fear they will find ways, even now, to hurt Sansa still further.”

 

“A wardship is not enough,” Tywin says, swirling his whisky in his glass in contemplation. “You need something water-tight. Adopt her. That would be the only thing that I can see. They cannot take her from you if they have renounced all rights to her, and if you have adopted her as your own child.”

"I see," Rickard answers. "Whom would you  recommend  for such a task?"

"I can draw up the papers myself; it should not be too onerous," Tywin replies with alacrity. "I would also set some sort of consequence for Ned and  Lyanna's misdemeanours . Rickard, you can do nothing about breaking the inheritance of the title of Lord Paramount - but if you so  chose  you could cut your two children off without a penny, their trust funds excepted, you could banish them from Winterfell, and you could, again if you so  chose , make the little Lady Sansa your heir, give her everything, including your ancestral estates. The same for you,  Hoster . You wouldn't be able to pass the title to her, but you could pass everything you desired excepting that to her."

"I had not thought of that."

"I had,"  Hoster  snorts. "Catelyn has proven herself a disappointment, and my other two children, well... were  Edmure  still alive I would have doubted his capability, and Lysa will never be fit to inherit anything; the administration at her psychiatric hospital only earlier this week told me I should expect never to see her released from the facility. Sansa is the only one of my descendants to whom I would leave my legacy, if I had the choice."

"Bloody primogeniture," Rickard mutters.

 

"We might well be able to get such a law changed, Rickard. If we gain a majority for it in Parliament, that might be yet feasible."

 

"You would do that?"

 

"It is already the case in Dorne, why should it not be the case in the rest of the Kingdoms as well?" Tywin muses. "Though the Princess  Loreza  will be utterly insufferable as a result."

 

Joanna smirks. "Leave her to me," she says airily. " Loreza  and I have known one another since we were tiny and boasting to one another about who had the best tea parties. Pink or white lace, I seem to remember.  Loreza's  love of  colour  meant she advocated pink, and I for white, of course. I can convince her of the necessity of supporting such a Lannister bill in Parliament."

 

"Lannister bill?"  Hoster  frowns.

 

"If either you or Rickard propose it, it would be seen as an overt attack against Ned and Catelyn. I, on the other hand, appear merely as a disinterested observer."

 

"Thank you, Tywin," Rickards says.

 

"Of course." Tywin pauses to swallow some more scotch. "Have you thought of housing? and schools?"

 

"Yes, that is another issue... neither  Hoster  nor I can move into each other's houses, that would send quite the wrong political signal to the House of Lords, and we cannot afford that."

 

"What about buying a townhouse in the Lady Sansa's name? As a gift for her?"

 

"That could work, indeed. But where are we going to find a townhouse fitting for her?"

 

Tywin watches as his wife frowns in contemplation, tapping at her phone. "There!" she exclaims suddenly. "I knew I had heard something of the kind: the  Lorathi  government is selling their embassy house in King's Landing. "

 

"Yes, it's a rather nice house from what I recall,"  Hoster  muses. "Though the last time I was there was about five years ago; we'd probably have to renovate the whole thing."

 

"And as for schools," Rickard says, "I wonder if, considering that the academic year has already begun, whether having her privately tutored until the beginning of the next academic year is our best option."

 

"It would still be worth enquiring at the private schools in the city; some of them, I know, begin their admissions procedures quite far in advance," Joanna suggests.

 

"She needs to  socialise , as well. Her only companions cannot be us and her household staff,"  Hoster  replies. 

 

"As I recall, Tywin and I have several young nieces of an age with your Sansa. We can arrange something quite easily," Joanna says, and Tywin turns to his wife. 

 

"Kevan and Dorna would be happy with that, I imagine," Tywin snorts. 

 

"It would be a beginning, that is true." 

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Predictions?


End file.
